Guardian Angel
by Rosebug
Summary: For years, I've been carrying this burden alone. It's not by choice. No one will believe me, and no matter how many times I show them, they forget. But at least some good can come of this power: I may die, again and again, but I will always come back to protect her. I will always be her guardian angel.


"Let me get this straight," I say, narrowing my eyes at my little sister. "You want me to let you go to a shady fucking party at a shady fucking part of town dressed as a slutty fucking vampire?"

"Yes," Karen says.

"And you're walking there? Alone? Through said shady part of town?"

"Kenny…." She's using that voice again, damn her—that soft, adorable voice that she knows I can't argue with. Her eyes are big and round, her lips (red as blood from that vampire makeup) slightly parted. "Please?"

"You do realize what happens to pretty girls in short skirts walking through dark alleys infested by moronic thugs, right?"

She looks down and smiles a little. "I'm pretty?"

"You're beautiful, Karen; that's kind of the problem."

She raises her eyes to me again, tilts her head. "Don't worry. Nothing will happen."

I let out a disgusted half-growl/half-sigh. "Really? Know that for sure, huh?"

"Yes," she says. No elaboration. But I know by the way her eyes crinkle like they did when she was little and she had a secret that she's talking about _him_. Mysterion. So I don't push it. She doesn't know his true identity. She's still a kid that way; he's a hero, an anonymous figure, and I know it would hurt her if she learned her Superman was just her brother. Just her plain, normal, very un-mysterious brother. And I don't want to hurt her. Because I'm her guardian angel. I'd give my life for her, and I have, again and again, and I don't regret a single fucking death.

"Fine," I say. "Just, you know. Careful, right?"

"Right." She beams and hugs me and runs out the door.

The second she's gone, I'm in my room and throwing on the cape and tights and little bobby question mark that I came up with when I was ten. I've had to remake them a few times to fit with my erratic growth spurts, but now, at nineteen, I'm hopefully done with that.

When I've made my transformation from annoyingly over-protective older brother to heroic guardian angel, I run out the door, ignoring the sounds of my parents shouting at each other in their bedroom. I can catch up with Karen before she hits the bad part of town—she's never been good at walking in high heels—but still, I hurry. This is South Park. Anything could happen to her.

I see her, lit by a dim streetlight, in the block ahead of me. It strikes me how much she's grown since I first made this costume. Her long chestnut hair now falls in easy layers to her waist. She's tall, almost as tall as me, and it's not just the shoes. But her brown eyes—eyes I know so well—are still as sweet and innocent as the day she was born. I've devoted most of my teenage life to keeping them that way.

Then she turns left, into a dark alley, and I snap back to reality.

There's a ladder on one of the buildings lining the alley, and I'm there, climbing it, before I can even think.

I hear a deep, slurred voice, and my breath catches.

"Come on, babe—don't tell me you're not asking for it, a skirt like that."

"Let go of me!" Karen's voice this time, shrill, strained, scared.

"We just want a little fun here. You can give us a little fun, huh, babe?"

There's more than one. I reach the roof of the building and look down, into the alley.

"Stop it—don't touch me!"

Two men. Baggy clothes, empty bottles around them, their hands on my sister. I swing myself over the edge and land right beside them. My shins ache with the impact, but I ignore the pain and straighten.

"Leave," I say, watching the two men, my eyes hard with hate, searching for weaknesses. "Now."

They're caught off guard by my sudden entrance, but after a moment they take in my costume. One chokes out a drunken laugh. The other snorts.

"Fuck off, Batman," the bigger one says. He turns back to Karen, who's retreated up against the wall and is clutching the hem of her skirt, and reaches for her again. Before he can touch her, I grab his wrist.

"She said no." I twist my hand, hard, and hear a snap as the man's wrist breaks. He screams and wrenches away, stumbling to the ground.

"Shit!" The other guy jolts backwards.

Before he can get angry, I say, "Karen, I want you to take out your phone and call the cops. Can you do that for me?"

She jerks into action, shaking fingers fumbling through her purse. Good. All I have to do now is keep them occupied.

I turn my attention back to the moronic thugs. Just in time.

I dodge the punch the one with two good wrists throws and raise my hands, shooting a quick glance behind me to see Karen's mouth moving, the phone pressed to her face. I need to stay between them.

The drunk swings his fist again, and I block, then knee him in the stomach. As he buckles, I grab his hair and hit him. And again. And again until my knuckles are sore and his nose is splattered with gore.

I let him go.

"Behind you!" Karen screams, and I turn.

Sharp, red pain pierces me. My knees tremble as I look down to see the man whose wrist I broke thrusting a switchblade into my gut.

"No!"

Her shriek of terror hurts more than the knife.

The man pulls his blade out, and I slump over, falling.

"Oh fuck!" I hear the bloody-nose guy say. "Dude, fuck, let's go!"

Hurried footsteps, away, and then one pair towards, clicking high heels, scrambling.

"No!" she says. My vision is graying, tunneling, but I can make out Karen's face, her brown eyes wide in fear or panic or just plain shock. "This isn't happening, no, no! Don't die, please! Please!"

That last please is so desperate, so scared, wrenching from her throat in a raw cry.

I don't let Karen see me die. She never has before. I protect her, but whenever I die for her, I make sure I'm hidden, by myself. Because that—dying alone, scared and suffering—that is a million times less agonizing than hearing her sobbing and knowing I'm the one who caused it. And I know she'll forget it in a few minutes, but it still happened, it still fucking happened no matter what anyone else says, and I will remember it.

With the last of my strength, I reach up and use my thumb to wipe the tears from her eyes.

Then my arm falls, and my vision is black, and my thoughts are slowing, and I'm almost gone, but I can still hear, vaguely, one last word she screams.

"Kenny!"

* * *

I bolt up in bed, my heart still pounding, as if I just woke from a nightmare. But this was real. I scramble out of bed and throw my things around my room, looking for my phone. I need to call her. I need to know she's all right.

When I finally find it in the pocket of my hoodie, I swipe to her number, running out of my room. My fingers leave sweaty marks on the screen.

Before I can hit dial, the front door flies open. I look up. Karen is standing there, gasping for breath, black makeup streaking her cheeks.

She sees me and freezes. Her eyes are wide and wet and clear, open, alive.

"Kenny?" she says, her voice shaking. "What—how are you—you're not him?"

Him?

"Who?" is all I can ask.

"But I thought…." Her voice is high with shock. "You're not Mysterion?"

I stare at her. But she doesn't known, she's never known. I thought to her Mysterion and Kenny were two separate people, opposites—one a protective older brother and one a dark guardian. It's been that way since I was a kid. And she—she's always been a kid, is still so young and innocent.

"You knew?" I say.

And then a new question occurs to me. If she's still crying, still afraid, then—

"Karen? You remember it?"

"You are him?" she asks in a breathy voice. "But then—how—I watched you die!"

I can't talk, can't think of anything to say. My whole life I've been dying. No one's ever remembered, and no matter how hard I try to make them, no one ever believes me.

I need to make sure.

"You saw me get stabbed? Mysterion—you remember it?"

"Of course I remember!" she says, nearly shouting now. "How could I forget my brother dying?"

I've wanted this. For so long, I've wanted someone to remember, to acknowledge all the pain and fear and shit I've been through. I've wanted someone to share the burden. But….

Not her. Not my little sister.

She's in my arms before I know it, burying her head into my chest, and I'm not sure if I ran to her or if she ran to me.

"Kenny," she says, and her voice is calmer now, softer. This close, I can smell her cinnamon perfume. She didn't used to wear perfume. "Kenny, how are you alive? If you really are him, then…."

I kiss the top of her head, smoothing her silky hair down her back. I close my eyes, trying not to let my tears fall.

"You called me your guardian angel, Karen," I say. "I'll always protect you. Not even death can stop me."

"I don't understand," she whispers. "Please, Kenny. How are you alive?"

I say nothing, just pull her tighter against me.

My heart and stomach are constricting, tightening, pushing in on themselves until they're nothing but knots. Of all the people in the whole fucking world, why did she have to be the one to remember?

"Karen," I say and my throat is burning, but I know this is the right thing. "You need to forget. This thing—this thing that's wrong with me—I can't push it on you. Please, just…forget. Like everyone always does."

She pulls away. Her mouth is firm, and her eyes are blazing.

"I don't know what's happening, Kenny—I don't know how you're still here, but one thing I can tell: this is hurting you, whatever it is. So I'm going to help you."

"Karen—"

"No," she says. "Now it's my turn to be your guardian angel. I won't let you be alone. I will always be here. Do you understand?"

And then it strikes me. She's grown up. She's not a kid anymore. I remember the words I spoke to her in that foster home so long ago. And now she's saying them to me.

Someone to share the burden, someone to love me, someone to protect me when I'm too weak to do it myself. I've always wanted that.

I wipe my eyes, trying to smile through my sobs, and choke out—

"I'll try."


End file.
